


sing me like a choir

by hamiltrashed



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Drunken Kissing, Drunken Shenanigans, First Kiss, First Time, Karaoke, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 21:39:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9033515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: Against the odds that such a thing could ever happen, Hamilton and Jefferson drunkenly perform a karaoke duet. Hungover the morning after and unable to remember the previous night at all, Hamilton gets frustrated when everyone seems to know something about the duet that he doesn't. It isn't long before he finds out what that is.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Michelle_A_Emerlind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle_A_Emerlind/gifts), [skarlatha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarlatha/gifts).



> Okay, so, I've been working on this since July, but only just got it done because a.) I was inspired and b.) because two of my best friends in the universe totally needed _something_ as a Christmas present because Parcelforce sucks and lost a bunch of Christmas gifts that I sent home ahead of me at the end of my study abroad in England. So here's this fic. I don't even know what to say. These plot bunnies just come to me.
> 
> Thanks for betaing your own Christmas present, MAE. And I'm glad you and Skari liked it so much! <3

It’s the alcohol making him courageous. It’s gotta be the alcohol. It feels both good and terrible, burning down Hamilton’s throat like wildfire, slowly breaking up all the tension that goes as deep as his bones and molding him into a far more relaxed human being (or at least, a damn good impression of one). Or it could be the bar. It’s not at all the seedy little hole in the wall he normally disappears to when he wants to unwind away from eyes that know him, that expect his tired body to never stop moving. On the contrary, it’s a positively jovial environment, and the scene in which Hamilton finds himself feels straight out of a bad movie in which a group of friends goes out after a long day at work and finds their lives changed in the morning. Only, not everyone here could be called a friend, and Hamilton is sure that the only thing different in the morning will be how long it takes him to appear as though he isn’t hungover.

Lafayette has a drink in his hand and his head tipped back on Hamilton’s shoulder while he roars with laughter at Laurens, who is pushing more drinks on Jefferson and encouraging him to (if Hamilton hears him correctly) remove the stick from his rectum. Burr sits next to Jefferson, eyeing him with distaste and Laurens with something that, even to Hamilton’s slightly-blurred vision, smacks of affection. Angelica and Eliza are matching each other shot for shot while their sister, Peggy, just the right side of 21 to bartend, eggs them on from a few feet away behind the bar. Herc raps his knuckles on the table in a heavy beat that sounds like anticipation, like a drum roll. It’s all part of some bizarre equation -- friends + frenemies + booze + unexpected cheer. To Hamilton’s surprise, it equals out to him tonguing the last droplets of beer from the mouth of his bottle as he upends it over his face, and shoving Lafayette out of the booth so he can make his way toward the karaoke stage.

The karaoke machine is on and working, though it appears absurdly outdated. More than that, it’s covered with a thick layer of dust, and Hamilton is sure that the only time anybody touches it is to turn it on so that its screen shines like a beacon, inviting any intrepid person who’s seen the bottom of too many bottles to make an ass out of themselves. Most, if not all, it would appear, have managed to resist such temptation, but tonight, Hamilton is determined to make the most of the fact that his whole body feels both heavy and light. He wants to prolong every moment of the way his mind is strangely free of worry, that he hasn’t thought of work since the middle of his second beer.

Hamilton sits down on the edge of the little stage near the booth he just left, blows dust off the machine, and promptly sneezes. Sniffling and shaking it off, he begins to fiddle with the buttons until he finds a track list. Every song appears to be at _least_ ten years old, and Hamilton is grateful that he won’t be forced to sing _Call Me Maybe_ at the top of his lungs like a teenage girl in her bedroom. On the other hand, most of the songs appear to be duets, and while Hamilton feels as though he has rather masterfully managed to learn how to sing both parts of every Les Misérables duet in his shower, he knows that’s not going to impress anybody here. He’s not sure why he feels the need to impress anybody to begin with, as though anybody asked him to do this, but he’s never half-assed anything in his life, and he’s not about to start now.  
  
So he pushes himself up off the little stage and ambles back toward the booth, leaning over Burr’s shoulder. “You should sing with me,” he slurs at him, and Burr shrugs him off with a look of disgust.

“Not likely,” Burr snaps, with the air of someone having just been asked to volunteer for a waterboarding demonstration. He’s clearly far too sober.

Hamilton makes a face at him and turns to Lafayette. “ _You_ should sing with me,” he demands, but Lafayette, now caught up in his phone, mutters something in French about Washington and, if Hamilton is translating it correctly in his head, nudity. He squints at him for a moment, but shakes his head, deciding that inquiring further might lead to things he’s not sure he wants to know about either his boss or his best friend.  
  
Everyone else carefully avoids Hamilton’s eyes as he looks around, and Hamilton, ever one for drama, unsteadily stomps his foot on the floor like an overtired toddler. “ _Somebody_ better sing with me!”

Just as he’s about to give up hope on his epic stage debut, Laurens’s voice, sounding like tequila-flavoured amusement, at last speaks up. “He’ll sing with you.”

For a moment, Hamilton is confused. Laurens doesn’t seem to be pointing at Herc, Lafayette is obviously preoccupied, and Burr already refused. He couldn’t possibly be suggesting…

“ _Jefferson_?” Hamilton asks, shaking his head wildly and going dizzy with it. His voice is thick with too many beers and incredulity. “Jefferson wouldn’t piss to put me out if I were on fire. He’s not gonna sing with me.”

Hamilton is pretty positive that what he just stated is fact, but maybe Jefferson is insulted and thereby takes this as a challenge. Or maybe it’s that Laurens is digging the heel of his palm into Jefferson’s spine as he shoves him into Burr, knocking both of them out of the booth and onto the floor. Maybe it’s all of that and the alcohol, too, because Jefferson stands and sways, then stumbles close and throws his arm around Hamilton’s shoulders. “I pick the song,” he says without preamble.

Jefferson moves toward the stage, dragging Hamilton with him, and starts steadily tapping the buttons on the karaoke machine until he apparently finds a song he likes. His face lights up and he grins broadly at Hamilton, reaching for his arm and tugging him up on the stage next to him.

“What did you pick?” Hamilton asks, the look on Jefferson’s face making him feel somewhat regretful that he had this idea to begin with. Jefferson looking excited can never mean good things.

But Jefferson thumps Hamilton hard on his chest with the back of his hand, shoves a microphone at him, smirks and slurs out, “Well, you don’t have the breasts but I bet you do a great Dolly Parton.”

“ _What_?!” Hamilton begins, but it’s too late. The song has started and if he’s Dolly, that means Jefferson is Kenny Rogers, and even drunk, Jefferson has a fairly nice voice. It’s not a voice meant for the pop-country tone of the song, but he makes it work anyway.  
  
Hamilton stumbles over his first words when he joins in, but he manages to harmonize regardless. “ _You do somethin’ to me that I can’t explain, hold me closer and I feel no pain…”_

The rest of the bar is either laughing or rolling their eyes; Hamilton can see it from here. But Jefferson _does_ hold him close, lays his microphone on Hamilton’s cheek and sings against his face, far too drunk to care that this is Hamilton he’s touching and singing to like a close friend, like a lover…

And alright, it’s not as though Hamilton has never considered the possibility. He and Jefferson are polar opposites, excepting the part where somewhere deep down, Hamilton knows they both secretly appreciate the way they’re the only ones who can match each other. Jefferson knows there is nobody who will approach any given project with more ferocity if that’s what it takes to get it done, and Hamilton knows there’s nobody who can keep pace with him like Jefferson can. Laurens is young and eager; Lafayette, worldly and brilliant beyond measure. Herc gains trust and information faster than anybody Hamilton’s ever met and even Burr is, admittedly, whip-smart, if a bit fickle and opportunistic. But Jefferson… well, he and Hamilton are a match made somewhere down in a circle of hell dressed up to look like heaven.

All of this is not even covering the fact that Jefferson is, physically, something else. Hamilton is suitably embarrassed by how he needs only to look at Jefferson -- at his smile, his eyes, the shape alone of his body -- to get his mouth watering like the Nile. He’s exactly the type of man Hamilton would fuck if he weren’t so damnably aggravating, if he didn’t play Hamilton like a fiddle every given chance. Though, if he’s honest, Hamilton has considered and is still considering it regardless of these things, much to his own distress.

So it’s a little on the nose when they look at each other and sing the words, “ _We got somethin’ goin’ on…”_ and _“tender love is blind.”_ And Hamilton would certainly be lying if he said that he didn’t feel a pinch of something like arousal (though his body seems to be more alcohol than blood at the moment and that would be, no pun intended, rather hard to achieve) at the lyric, “ _we ride it together_.” In his drunken state, with Jefferson’s hand playfully on the back of his neck, fingering baby-hair locks that have come loose from his ponytail, it doesn’t matter what the meaning of the words is. When Jefferson sings them to him, they sound like sex, like _hell_ _yes_ , like unabashed, public desire spitting in the face of how much they shouldn’t want it. This has rapidly gone from fun, drunken entertainment to something that feels a little bit lustful and a lot like a mating dance.

Hamilton belts out the beginning of the second verse with as much composure as he can muster, his eyes no longer seeking the delight of the crowd but concentrating solely on the slightly unfocused but nevertheless blatant interest in Jefferson’s own eyes.  
  
“ _Too deep in love and we got no way out, and the message is clear: this could be the year for the real thing,”_ they sing to one another. Hamilton’s voice has unintentionally become a low croon and Jefferson’s dips like a wave to match it.

From _“we rely on each other”_ to “ _from one lover to another_ ,” there’s something changing. Or maybe it’s not really changing, but exposing itself. Hamilton tells himself that like the impulse to get up here, it’s the alcohol. Or the environment. Or the people. But really, it’s just him. And it’s just Jefferson. And it’s a stupid, dangerous boundary to cross. But as the song comes to an end and the two of them are met with scattered boos and cheers, Hamilton somehow finds himself in Jefferson’s arms. Jefferson’s lips graze his jaw and then they find their target, and Hamilton is lost.

Jefferson tastes like whiskey or tequila or beer or all three; without giving it permission at all, Hamilton’s tongue is trying to tease apart each sweet-sour flavour on his lips, in his mouth. He’s dizzier than before and the room feels like it’s spinning and Hamilton is convinced the only reason he’s still standing is that Jefferson has one hand at the small of his back, the other creeping into the back pocket of his jeans. It’s enough to keep him upright, his hands and this kiss even while gravity seems to wish him to the floor. There’s no sound now, none that he can hear anyway; no background music, no voices roaring for them to get off of the stage. Hamilton has a hand planted firmly in the middle of Jefferson’s chest, a pretend barrier to keep this from going too far, although somewhere, the logical, slightly-sober part of his brain says that it already has. But even if he can’t hear it, Hamilton can feel the vibrations in Jefferson’s chest from where he’s making noise -- maybe moaning, maybe growling, maybe both. Hamilton hopes for both.

#

Hamilton’s mouth tastes like booze and death and he’s going to be late. He’s brushing his teeth with one hand and trying to pick an outfit with the other, hair half-sopping from the shower, with twenty minutes to go until he has to be at work. Even if he got on the train now, he’d never make it in time, and goddamn it, he’s never _late_. He’s either hours early or right on time and never anything else. But today, he’s sporting a little too much stubble and bags under his eyes and a headache half the size of the city, and so he’s going to be late whether he likes it or not.

 _Never again on a weeknight,_ he tells himself. He doesn’t remember last night in the slightest. In his mind, there are only flashes of purple-blue lighting and the faces of his friends, the inside of a taxi at 2am and the cold, white porcelain of a toilet he never wants his face that close to again. All he knows is that for whatever reason, there was too much alcohol involved and not enough of the sensibility he’s prided himself on over the years. When he arrives at work forty-five minutes later and sees the first sly, mischievous grin aimed his way, he finds that’s not a mistake he’s keen to repeat.

It isn’t that people don’t ever smile at him. It’s just that Hamilton’s temper is at towering heights when he finally makes his way into the office, and he is sure the look on his face is warning enough to stay out of his way. So he finds it unusual that faced with his hungover annoyance ready to bubble over at any second, anyone would want to catch his eye at all, let alone grin at him with a look that says something has happened while he was not there, that says there is a secret he is not privy to.

“Something I can do for you?” he snaps at a person whose name he can’t remember, but the young man doesn’t even flinch, just keeps on smiling.

“Oh, no, Mr Hamilton,” comes the response. “I, uh… just wanted you to know that you’re very talented and we’re lucky to have you here.”  
  
A chorus of snickers comes from the desk next to the young man’s, and Hamilton catches a glimpse of Eliza and Angelica, seated together at Eliza’s desk with their hands hiding something from Hamilton’s view.

“Phenomenally talented,” Angelica agrees, and then she and Eliza break into giggles once more while the young man seated next to them covers his smile with his hands and refuses to meet Hamilton’s eyes again.

Hamilton curses under his breath and throws up his hands, stalking away. Like he has time for whatever their damn game is.

He doesn’t get very far when another round of laughter greets him. Laurens is at the center of it, and he has the good grace to blush when he sees Hamilton glaring at him, but his eyes still sparkle with mirth.

“Do I have something on my face?” Hamilton snarls at him, and Laurens just shakes his head, earning more laughs from the people around him.

“Nope,” Laurens tells him in a strained voice, as if trying to control himself. “Nothing at all.”  
  
Hamilton rolls his eyes. “You can all fuck off,” he announces rudely. “I’m going to find Jefferson and get to work on this damn project.”  
  
This causes the loudest bout of laughter yet and Laurens, struggling to breathe, biting his lip, manages to get out, “Oh? Would you say that you, er… _rely on each other_ , you and Jefferson?”

Hamilton is starting to get pissed off. It’s beginning to occur to him that whatever the hell is going on is flying right above his head and, as not many things tend to do that, it clearly has to do with last night. Hamilton’s lack of memory of the night before is agitating him, particularly as he knows that aside from the Schuyler sisters and Laurens, none of these people were even at the bar last night, and yet somehow, they all seem to know something about the evening that he doesn’t. Hamilton has a sudden, sneaking suspicion that Jefferson has something to do with this, and so he offers his middle finger to Laurens who, far from being discouraged, holds back more laughter, and he stalks away to find Jefferson.

He ignores the amused looks along the way from everyone until he steps into Jefferson’s office, gets right up close, leans across the desk, and prods him hard in the chest. “What did you do?” he asks, without further preamble.

“Excuse me?” Jefferson says, rolling his chair out of reach of Hamilton’s hand, which is quickly curling into a fist.

“They’re all out there laughing at me and I know you have something to do with it, so fess the fuck up, Thomas. What did you do?”

“Okay, first of all --” Jefferson begins, but then he pauses, as if he’s just heard what Hamilton said. “Wait, they’re laughing at _you_? Bullshit. They’re laughing at _me_! And far be it from me to accuse you of being the cause but frankly, now I’m suspicious.”

“Excuse me?!” Hamilton parrots at him. “I have far better things to do with my time than antagonise you in such childish ways, contrary to what you believe of me.”  
  
“And I don’t?” Jefferson snaps back. “Look… whatever, okay? Let them have their joke, whatever it is. Get your things and I’ll see you in the conference room. I don’t have time for this.”

Hamilton lets out a frustrated growl and turns on his heel, all but stomping out of the room and heading for his own office to gather up his papers and his laptop. Maybe this was a bad idea, working with Jefferson. He’d pressed Washington for the opportunity, not because he relished the idea of spending time with Jefferson, but because despite Hamilton’s dislike of the man, he knew Jefferson would be the only one capable of keeping up with where Hamilton wanted to go with it, even if they disagreed on the end product. They’d cross that bridge when they got there, Hamilton had expected.

Now he’s not so sure. On the walk back to his own office, there are more snickers, more friends and people he’s barely acquainted with saying odd, seemingly nonsensical things to him. He frowns heavily at every last one of them, ready to explode by the time he reaches his office and raises his head to find Lafayette just outside the door.

Hamilton opens his mouth to greet him, closes it again, pauses, and then says, “Were you in my office?”

Lafayette gives Hamilton a strange look, an even stranger smile, and lifts a hand to wave it in front of Hamilton’s eyes. “Mon ami, are you in there? I was coming from the copy room.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the copy room next door to Hamilton’s office. “What purpose would I have in your office when my little lion is not there? I know you’re hungover, but damn.”

Hamilton rolls his eyes again but it’s starting to hurt. “Sorry. I’m just… what the hell is going on around here? I feel like everyone is laughing at me.”

But if Lafayette knows something, his face appears entirely impassive, shows just a hint of confusion rather than knowledge of something awry. “Perhaps you’re imagining things,” he says lightly. “Maybe take a half day and go home at lunch and get some more sleep?”

Hamilton shakes his head. “No, I can’t afford to do that. Nor can this place. Jefferson and I have to work on this project. The financials were okay last year but we can do better this year.”

Lafayette smiles. “Carry on, then. This could be the year for the real thing.” He claps Hamilton on the back and saunters away. Something about these last words rings familiar to Hamilton, but he can’t place them. He adds his best friend to the list of people acting just a little too bizarrely today and slips into his office to get his things.

Settling into the chair opposite Jefferson in an otherwise empty conference room a few minutes later, Hamilton tries to put the weirdness behind him and settle in to work. He opens his laptop and types in his password, and is about to say something to Jefferson, perhaps an apology for his accusation, when the full effect of what he’s seeing hits him.

Hamilton’s desktop has been changed. He knows immediately that Lafayette is responsible, that he’d lied to his face and had indeed been exiting his office when Hamilton had shown up. But that’s not the important thing here. The important thing is… well. Goddamn. There’s a startlingly high quality photo of himself on his desktop. Himself and Jefferson. Mouths locked together in a heated kiss that Hamilton looks like he’s enjoying a whole hell of a lot. His instant reaction is to tell himself it’s photoshopped except for the part where it’s very clearly not. It’s from last night, and now Hamilton knows exactly why everyone in the office has been cracking up at the very sight of him today.

Hamilton’s face burns and he looks up at Jefferson, imagines there are flames in his eyes because there probably are. “What. Did. You. Do?” he hisses again.

And again, Jefferson responds, “Excuse me?”

“You _kissed_ me!” Hamilton spins his laptop around on the table, shoves it across the polished wood at Jefferson. “I can’t believe you _kissed_ me! In front of _everybody_!”

Jefferson’s jaw drops and he grabs the laptop off the table, holds it right up close to his face as if it’s at all blurry, as if the two of them could be mistaken for anybody else. “I didn’t… not on your _life_ , Alexander Hamilton. When the hell…?!”

“Last night,” Hamilton snaps, and he gets up and rounds the table, leans over Jefferson and pokes at the screen. “You _KISSED ME_.”

“I heard you the first time,” Jefferson says, scowl on his face, his eyes still on the photo as he sets the laptop back on the table. But then they snap to Hamilton. “Anyway, who’s to say _you_ didn’t kiss _me_?”

Hamilton splutters. “I… would rather die,” he concludes lamely, averting his own eyes from Jefferson’s piercing look, hoping the lie can’t be read on his face. He searches for his anger again, something he can use to cover the stilted, unconvincing way in which he just told Jefferson he’d prefer death over kissing him, but the emotion is fizzling. Instead, there’s heat just under his collar and an emphatic voice in his head telling him that even if he can’t remember the kiss, he certainly enjoyed it.

“Oh, yes,” Jefferson sneers derisively, gesturing again at the photo, “you certainly look like an unwilling participant. You’re only desperately clutching at my shirt but perhaps you merely sought to express your contempt for me _in tongues_.”

At once, Hamilton feels too close to Jefferson for comfort; he returns to his seat, taking his laptop with him, sinking down into the chair as if it will swallow him whole. But after a moment, he can’t help himself, and he looks at the picture again, examines it closely.

He does indeed have his fist curled into Jefferson’s shirt, his tongue in his mouth, his eyes closed, with an expression of utter longing on his face. It’s a look that reveals his desire plainly, openly, for the whole damn world to see, as if it were something he even really understands himself, let alone ever dreamt of showing to the public. But there it is, and everyone knows now. Worse, _Jefferson_ knows, and Hamilton doesn’t know how to express to him that it isn’t what it looks like when it so obviously is.

“Your hand is on my ass,” Hamilton says dryly, trying to shift the onus of owning last night onto Jefferson, whom the photo proves to be no less willing, no less eager than Hamilton himself.

For a moment, the room is quiet, and Hamilton wonders if Jefferson will take the bait or simply leave. His eyes find Jefferson’s face and it mirrors his expression of odd contentment in the photo. “In my defence,” he says at last, his own annoyance slipping away, “you have a great ass.”

Hamilton gapes at him. This is not what he was expecting Jefferson to say, and he waves a hand awkwardly, sudden frustration rising up in him again. “So, what, is this a _thing_ now?”

“A thing?” Jefferson says, entirely calm now, his tone full of wry amusement. 

“Yeah. A _thing_. Where we made out and now you’re flirting with me and then we leave this room and act as if it never happened even though everyone knows that it did?” 

Jefferson shakes his head, unable to stop himself from laughing. “You have _not_ seen flirting. And did we make out? Clearly neither of us actually remember it. Perhaps we should ask around.”

“No!” Hamilton says immediately. “We are not letting them discuss us further as if we’re some goddamn water cooler gossip.” He pauses. “Does it really matter if we did or didn’t make out, anyway? It doesn’t even matter who kissed who. It’s obviously not going to happen again.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes heavenward, as if praying for patience. “Make up your mind,” he says placidly. “You either dislike the prospect of us acting as though it didn’t happen, or you want to disregard it entirely.”

Hamilton huffs, prepared to say that that wasn’t what he meant, but he stops. “I don’t know what I want,” he says after a lengthy pause. “I mean -- we are not -- in what universe are we compatible, Jefferson? Think about it. When have we ever actually gotten along? I… I don’t even like you. You don’t like me.”

Jefferson raises his eyebrows, frowning at Hamilton. “Politically, I think you are a raving lunatic just as you think me one. But you don’t really know me, do you, Alexander? You assume so much and know very little.”

Hamilton can’t tell if Jefferson is angry with him or not. Jefferson stands, rounding the corner of the table and pushing Hamilton’s chair back. He leans down over him, closer and closer until he’s so close that Hamilton could count every eyelash if he wanted to. (He sort of wants to.)

“I don’t know if I kissed you last night, or if you kissed me, and frankly, this whole thing is an inconvenience because I have much bigger concerns and I don’t need the office in my business. But if we’re going to get all fucked up over something, we might as well know what it is.”

Hamilton is about to open his mouth and say that this isn’t what he asked for, that all he wanted to do is sing a stupid song and enjoy his night off from working late and he never signed up for figuring out where he and Jefferson stand (as if it’s ever even been on the same planet). He wants to say that he’s never really _needed_ to know where he and Jefferson stand, because it’s only ever been a passing fantasy when Hamilton is bored or lonely, nothing more. He wants to say a lot, but he doesn’t get the chance, because Jefferson is kissing him then.

His mouth is heaven. Hamilton is positive of that the moment their lips meet, and that’s _before_ Jefferson gets his tongue in Hamilton’s mouth. He tastes like the pleasant sedation of Sunday morning coffee mixed with Friday night sin, and Hamilton finds his whole body arching up, just a little, drawn to the warmth of him, to the satisfying phantom feeling of the weight of his body hovering just above him but not nearly close enough. Jefferson’s thumb strokes over Hamilton’s cheekbone, as gently as though he were made of porcelain, but the chair quivers as Jefferson white-knuckles the arm of it, restraining himself, Hamilton is sure, from going all out and turning this into something else. Something it should not be, at least not here. And Hamilton tries not to let it, but something inside breaks open, or perhaps it was already broken upon the first kiss and now the bursting feeling inside him is just something needy pouring through the cracks. Whatever it is, it relies on what Hamilton is not sure he should allow himself to take, even though it is quite clear Jefferson is offering.

Jefferson pulls away at last, his eyes seeking Hamilton’s, but Hamilton clears his throat and looks somewhere over his left shoulder, aware that the kiss had been about five seconds from out of control. Jefferson makes a strange, aggravated noise and stands up straight, adjusting his tie as if it’s ever actually been out of place a day in his life.

“I can’t work like this,” he says, and Hamilton isn’t sure what he means, but he watches Jefferson gather his things and head for the door, leaving Hamilton sitting at the table, far more confused than when he’d first walked into the office to find his colleagues having a laugh at his and Jefferson’s expense.

“What the fuck just happened?” Hamilton mutters to the empty room, because he doesn’t know if that kiss had carried with it a _to be continued_ , and Jefferson had given him no indication that he should follow or try to coax him back. And so he doesn’t.

Instead, he does what he always does when he has no clue where to go next: he makes a plan.

#

It takes Jefferson several minutes to answer the door when Hamilton knocks shortly after eight that evening. “Oh, Lord,” Jefferson says, rolling his eyes. “He knows where I live.”

Hamilton ignores this and zeroes in on the slightly too-tight sweatpants, the old William & Mary t-shirt, the smell of mango that might be Jefferson’s body wash. He swallows, smiles a half-shy smile, and holds up a bottle of wine. “We should talk,” he tells Jefferson.

Jefferson blinks. “Yes, you and I and alcohol are certainly an exciting trio, aren’t we?” His tone is all sarcasm, but he reaches out and tugs the wine from Hamilton’s hand nonetheless, stepping aside to let him pass into his apartment.

Hamilton toes his shoes off on the mat and Jefferson gestures toward the couch in the sitting room, then shuts and locks the door, heading for the kitchen. He returns a moment later with two glasses and a corkscrew, and if Hamilton thinks he’s going to put it off as long as possible, he couldn’t be more wrong.

“Alright, go on,” he says. “What do you want to talk about?”

Hamilton gives him a look and tries to get the words to sound less like a challenge when he finally gets them out. “You kissed me. _Twice_. I would think that would invite some conversation.”

There’s a soft _pop_ as the cork loosens from the bottle, and Jefferson pours the both of them a glass before settling back against the couch, studying Hamilton in a way that makes him feel as though he’s being x-rayed. “I asked you to make up your mind about what you wanted,” Jefferson says. “I don’t recall that I ever got an answer.”

Hamilton gives a frustrated sigh, scrubbing a hand across his face and muttering, “I don’t want to act like this didn’t happen. It would be a little difficult now that you’ve kissed me again.” He pauses. “What do _you_ want?”

“You first,” Jefferson says mildly, like this is a game and he’s entertained. It makes Hamilton feel approximately as confident as a twelve year old passing a ‘do you like me, check yes or no’ note.

Hamilton licks his lips, leans forward for his wine glass, sips from it before saying, “I want… you said I didn’t know you. I’d like to.” Another sip. “I’m not wrong, though, am I? What I said before? You _don’t_ like me.”

Jefferson snorts. “I wouldn’t say that. I’ve always been fond of you on a personal level. Politically, I hate you, but you have a problem of reducing someone solely to their politics. Were we to… be something, I would certainly hope politics wouldn’t be involved. Lovers often disagree, Hamilton.”

Hamilton immediately chokes on another sip of wine, coughs and sputters out, “ _Lovers_?”

Jefferson scoffs. “Don’t act so scandalised. You showed up with a bottle of wine and that damn smile on your face. You can’t pretend you didn’t come here hoping to hear me imply that’s what I want. You can’t pretend you didn’t come here wanting that, too.”

Jefferson is right, of course, as he all too often is, whether Hamilton likes to admit it or not. It’s frustrating to be called on his game so early, but somewhere deep down, he knows he’d expected it. He finishes his glass of wine too quickly and sets it on the table. He’s not aiming for drunk tonight given the rotten hangover from this morning, but the pleasant warmth spreading through him from the first glass is making him forget the finer details of what he’d planned to say.

Instead, he closes the distance between them so he’s sitting close to Jefferson, and reaches out a hand, resting it on Jefferson’s knee. A simple touch, nearly innocent, both hesitant and heavy. Jefferson turns his eyes toward Hamilton’s fingers, now tapping a soft, almost impatient rhythm on his leg, as if they’ve reached the last round of Jeopardy and Hamilton is just waiting for his final answer. As if he’s waiting to see how much Jefferson is willing to wager, how confident he is in whatever his response to this move will be. Jefferson drains his glass.

There’s a soft clink when Jefferson leans forward and sets his glass next to Hamilton’s, and then silence, except for Hamilton’s own expectant breathing, the gentle creak of couch springs as Jefferson sits back. It feels like an hour passes in those few moments, and then Jefferson moves so fast, pounces like a cat, and Hamilton is on his back before he can figure out how he got there. All that matters is that he is, and that Jefferson is on top of him, slowly unbuttoning his shirt.

Jefferson’s body on his is something of a revelation. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of being weighed down in this way; it’s like being anchored and Hamilton has long since learned that there is safety in it, that he might drift away if it were not there. He doesn’t drift, though, not tonight. Tonight he is entirely present, with Jefferson’s lips ghosting over his collarbones and Jefferson’s tongue tracing patterns on his neck and Jefferson’s teeth nipping gentle bites along his chest.

His hands are both innocent and insistent, the pads of his fingertips tickling for just a second until his palms curl over Hamilton’s hips, his denim-clad thighs, the same way one runs their hands over precious objects, to explore every inch. Jefferson makes Hamilton conscious of every bit of himself; he notices the frankly embarrassing way his toes curl when Jefferson touches him, despite the fact that he’s barely done a damn thing. He notices the way his back arches with Jefferson’s mouth at his throat, and the way his hands shake when they reach out to touch back. Jefferson is clarity, a suddenly sharp, defined thing in Hamilton’s altogether blurry life, and by virtue of his closeness, Hamilton too is lucid, unambiguous, more articulate than he’s ever been.

Hamilton wants to speak, to find out exactly where this is going, but something nags at him and tells him to let it happen, that he doesn’t always need a plan. Spontaneity is better anyway, and if that comes in the form of letting Jefferson put his mouth wherever he wants, well, Hamilton is certainly not going to say no.

Jefferson is moving down between his legs now, kissing at Hamilton’s stomach, scraping his teeth along until they catch at the waist of his jeans. Hamilton doesn’t think he’s going to do it, but he does. He tugs Hamilton’s jeans open with his teeth, only reaches up to drag the zipper down and Hamilton is sure he’s going to die before it ever gets further than this. Because then Jefferson is reaching his hand inside Hamilton’s boxers, pulling his cock free, the gentle touch of his fingertips enough to make Hamilton shudder violently.

Jefferson’s hand moves between them while he leans back up and into Hamilton, chest heaving with a heavy, happy sigh. His lips finds Hamilton’s again, but after a moment, he tenses up, pauses, his hand stilling. Hamilton makes a sound he’s not proud of, hips bucking against Jefferson’s hand. “Why the _hell_ are you stopping?” He’s positive his cheeks are flushed already, his hair a mess with Jefferson’s free hand running through it, and now Jefferson is _stopping_ like Hamilton would ever ask him to.

“I just need to be sure you want this,” Jefferson murmurs against the corner of his mouth, pulling away to look at him properly. “Really want this, Alexander, because I’m not a one and done kind of guy.”

Hamilton blinks and stares. “My dick is in your hand and if you keep going, my legs are gonna be over your shoulders in about five minutes. What more do you need, a written invitation?”

Jefferson huffs. “And tomorrow? Are you going to want me around tomorrow?”

Hamilton groans and covers his eyes with one hand. “If you fuck me good enough, I’m going to want you around for the rest of my life.” He peeks through his fingers at Jefferson, who looks startled but somewhat pleased. “Fuck, Thomas, we’ll make the wedding plans later, okay? In the meantime, can you just pound me into the couch because if we’re being honest, I’ve been imagining this moment for like, the last five years and in my head, there was a lot less conversation.”

“Five years? But you don’t even _like_ me,” Jefferson says wryly, half suspiciously.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Hamilton mutters. “I’m going to die. Look, I didn’t like you, and now I do, but even when I didn’t, I used to think we’d have some pretty great hate sex, alright? Now are we doing this or aren’t we? Because if not, I usually like a guy to buy me dinner before the handjob.”

Jefferson’s hand tightens around him and Hamilton’s hips jerk upward into his fist. “Happy?” Jefferson asks, and his tone is both sarcastic and amused.

“Very,” Hamilton growls, drawing him down for another kiss. Jefferson’s fingers tangle in his hair and Hamilton grips one of the couch cushions until his knuckles go white, suddenly more desperate than he’s ever been.

Hamilton considers the fact that he’s never necessarily _craved_ sex; more than physical pleasure, he’s always craved a better seat at any given table, a higher position in any office, to put his name on anything that’ll bring him the attention he wants. And yet, in this second, he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted a damn thing more than he wants Jefferson. It’s stupid and probably dangerous for the career he’s built thus far but Jefferson’s tongue is in his mouth and it’s already too late. His hands can’t touch Hamilton fast enough.

He breaks away from Jefferson for a second, head tipped back against a pillow that he decides never to tell Jefferson is hideously ugly. “You’re wearing too much,” he whispers, hands reaching for the edge of Jefferson’s shirt to pull it up and over his head, eyes carefully avoiding what Jefferson’s sweatpants are hardly hiding. The worn grey cotton slips from Hamilton’s fingers and what little breath he has left catches in his throat. He’s heard many things about the legend that is Jefferson’s body and it’s not like he ever doubted that every one of them was true. The Biblical _Thomas_ was the doubter, in fact. But seeing really is believing and Hamilton is half a second away from scrambling to his knees and worshiping.

Jefferson can’t keep a hint of his usual smugness from his face when he catches sight of the pitiful, needy look Hamilton knows is on his face. “Just think,” he says with a smirk, “only hours ago you were horrified that I had kissed you and everyone knew. Imagine what they’ll say when you’re walking bowlegged for a week.”

“Better back up that big talk.”  
  
“Oh, don’t worry. I can.” The sweatpants come off and Hamilton can’t keep his mouth from falling open -- from shock or as an invitation, he’s not really sure. He doesn’t even have time to compose himself before Jefferson is telling him not to move and walking away. Hamilton blatantly stares at his ass as he heads down a dark hallway, presumably to his bedroom. He’d be ashamed at the way he ignores Jefferson and jumps off the couch to follow like a lost puppy, but even though Jefferson is the one who stopped to confirm Hamilton wanted it, he’s worried Jefferson has changed his mind and is climbing naked out the window.

He finds him in the bedroom at the end of the hall, not attempting an escape but rifling through a drawer and coming up with a bottle of lube and condoms.

“Impatient, as always,” Jefferson remarks, amused. “What part of ‘don’t move’ was unclear?”  
  
Hamilton shrugs. “Impatient. Like you said.”

Hamilton wanders toward the open window for a moment, the sounds of New York rushing by below a comfort as they always have been. Nobody glances up; New Yorkers never do. He wonders if they will when Jefferson has him screaming.

As if on cue, Jefferson steps in front of him, blocking his view of the world outside and backing him toward the bed, as if to remind him that the world inside is much more interesting. “Thinking of climbing out the window on me?” he asks.

Instead of telling Jefferson he thought the same of him, Hamilton merely shakes his head and laughs. “I’m sorry, was the part where I asked you to fuck me into the couch not clear?”

Jefferson grins. “I suppose I could stand to hear it again. Will the bed do?”

The backs of Hamilton’s thighs hit the mattress and he stops, Jefferson pressed against him so Hamilton can feel exactly how hard he is. He swallows, suddenly breathless, and leans up into a kiss. It’s not as though their previous kisses had been chaste, but Jefferson is conveying a lot more through them now. His teeth catch at Hamilton’s bottom lip and for whatever reason, it sends a shiver down his spine that makes him arch his back, hips grinding into Jefferson’s.

Jefferson all but manhandles him onto the bed. Hamilton could drown in the plush blankets and silky sheets and he thinks he might when Jefferson starts kissing along the insides of his thighs. His head sinks back into Jefferson’s pillows and a whine slips out before he can bite it back. As many times as Hamilton has been infuriated by Jefferson’s big mouth, he’s never once imagined it capable of turning him into the boneless, quivering mess he is right now. Fantasised about it, sure, but never honestly believed they could be here. But here they are, and Jefferson’s tongue has him on the verge of begging.

Hamilton surreptitiously slips a hand down toward his cock, but Jefferson pushes it away again. “Self-restraint is not your strong point, is it?” he asks, and Hamilton barely whimpers out a response.

“Not even close,” he says, and Jefferson just shakes his head.

Lost in the haze of all of this, Hamilton misses the moment Jefferson reaches for the lube bottle he’d placed at the bedside. But for all he cares, Jefferson could have magically summoned it into his hand as long as he keeps putting his fingers where they are, half inside him and working him open and _God_ , it’s been too long.

With Jefferson lighting a fire up and down his spine, Hamilton can’t think of a good reason anymore why he’d been so annoyed about Jefferson kissing him. His minor meltdown over the whole thing seems petulant now and though he knows it was rooted in his inability to control exactly how he and Jefferson finally stopped circling each other and collided (not to mention his inability to control the rumour mill that had instantly erupted at work in the wake of the kiss), it feels like an unnecessary tantrum. Who, after all, complains about being kissed? Not just being kissed, but being kissed by someone whom they’ve been secretly lusting after for literal years?

Truthfully, it isn’t easy to admit attraction for a man like Jefferson (Hamilton doesn’t know his middle name but he thinks it might be ‘Smug’), but whether the kiss was due to the alcohol or the atmosphere or it happened just because doesn’t matter very much. Not now. The universe, in all its wisdom, had decided that right then was the moment. Their moment. Hamilton can protest all he wants but monotony had long ago set in and he’s been overdue for a shake-up. Jefferson is a shake-up, alright, and then some. He’s a hurricane, and for once, Hamilton leans into the whirlwind and lets it sweep him up.

“ _Jesus,_ I’ve wanted you,” Jefferson admits out of nowhere. His voice dips deep as a river, soft Virginia drawl seeping in and destroying the practised tone he uses with the public, that he used with Hamilton up until now. Up until he had two fingers deep in Hamilton, up until Hamilton was angling for a third.

 _Yours to have, yours to lose_ , Hamilton thinks but doesn’t say. Instead, he rocks his hips and says Jefferson’s name like a song, and finds it appropriate because didn’t this all begin with a song? Except it really didn’t. It began with a five-year perpetual argument. Or it began with hate. Or it began with a handshake and, “Mr Jefferson? Alexander Hamilton.” All Hamilton knows is that somewhere it sprouted, a small, gnarled, runt of a tree and now it’s ten miles wide and a thousand miles high but even from here, he can still see the hint of buds on branches.

“Then fuck me,” Hamilton responds, because it seems like the only thing to answer with, even if it’s all pleading and no tact. Jefferson doesn’t need sentimentality, though; it comes and goes and he’s happy to oblige either way. He pulls his fingers free of Hamilton, and Hamilton closes his eyes again, recognises the way he feels the absence of them as something akin to hunger. He reminds himself never to tell Jefferson this, either. At least not for a long time.

He listens to the gentle tearing of a small packet, the _pop_ of the lid on a bottle, the soft grunt Jefferson makes with his hands on himself. He decides it’s not mere hunger he’s feeling after all. That feels like discomfort. Starving, on the other hand, is something he knows well and that’s what this is. Starving. Starving feels like coming out of your skin with desperation and Hamilton might be digging holes in the sheets with his nails. His eyes only open again when Jefferson is back between his legs, when he’s pressing right up against Hamilton and Hamilton is opening for him, ready and waiting and wanting.

Jefferson makes a sound that, coming from him, sounds unordinary, but deliciously so. It’s somewhere between a pant and moan, a half-gasp of surprise and something that translates to _more_. The fullness is everything and not enough and Jefferson seems to want to wait, to make sure Hamilton is okay maybe, but Hamilton only wants him to move. Legs trembling, he wraps them around Jefferson, pulls him in until there’s nowhere else to go, until Hamilton’s back arches up, whole body jerking with a harsh shudder.

Jefferson says something but there’s a strange roar in Hamilton’s ears and he misses it. He has to work his mouth around the way his tongue feels suddenly heavy and useless, and when he does, all he can say is “ _Please_.” Emphatic _please_ and nothing more.

There’s no period of slowness after that. Jefferson seems to want there to be, but he can’t help himself; he goes from zero to one hundred, and Hamilton’s hands leave the sheets to dig into Jefferson’s shoulders instead. His throat feels raw already with the moaning, and Jefferson is hitting a spot in him that Hamilton can only find on a prayer. Every thrust makes the headboard slam against the wall, and it’s probably expensive, and Hamilton almost laughs when he thinks about how he wants it to crack, to splinter down the middle.

Jefferson has run out of anything remotely serious _or_ quippy to say, so instead he leans down against Hamilton, movements never ceasing, and whispers things against his ear about _want_ and _need_ and how _good_ this is. Good is an understatement, Hamilton thinks, perhaps because he’s delirious with it all and his cock is trapped in the hot space between their bodies, and every roll of Jefferson’s hips into him has him thrusting up against Jefferson’s abs. It’s nearly enough to get him off, the thought of it, but he clenches hard around Jefferson and tells himself _not yet_. He wants more of this, hours more of it, even though he knows another five minutes is going to be impossible.

Another day, maybe, they’ll have another kind of first time, a first time for genuine exploration, a first time for all the things that the art of the tease can do. They’ll fill up their dance cards with one another on much slower numbers. But not today. Today, Hamilton only wants Jefferson locked with him in this dance, all fast and hard and unrelenting.

“Yes, yes, _there_ ,” he says in a hushed, hasty whisper, as if Jefferson needs direction or Hamilton to ask him to keep going. Jefferson’s mouth is at his neck now, Hamilton can feel his cock throbbing between them, and his hand tangles in Jefferson’s hair, gently tugging when Jefferson nips at his neck with just the barest edge of his teeth.

He’s mumbling words that don’t make sense against Hamilton’s skin, and his breath suddenly tickles against Hamilton’s ear when his hips slow to jerky, uneven movements and he whimpers, “ _Alexander_ \--”

His name on Jefferson’s lips sounds better than it ever has, and that along with Jefferson’s mouth drifting along his chest now, tongue flicking almost daringly across one nipple chokes off Hamilton’s next breath in his throat. He comes thrusting against Jefferson’s stomach, Jefferson curled against him, making noises that sound like sin.

Jefferson is not far behind him, hissing out a stream of curse words mixed with Hamilton’s name, over and over. He collapses into Hamilton, both of them a sweaty, sticky mess, both with heaving chests, and doesn’t move. Not for a long time. But Hamilton revels in the warmth of him, unable to stop the weak moans still coming from somewhere in the twisted pretzel of limbs that they are.

As before, Hamilton notices the absence of him immediately when he finally pulls away. His body aches with a sweet soreness and Hamilton isn’t typically this confident in himself, but he thinks he might be ready to go again if Jefferson just gives him an hour. Hell, he wants to. But Jefferson has other ideas.

“Where you going?” Hamilton asks, when Jefferson has carefully cleaned up both of them with a stray bath towel and slid out of the bed.

Jefferson just smiles. “You brought all that wine. Be a shame to let it go to waste.”

“Wow, you are something classy post-coitus, aren’t you?”

Jefferson shakes his head and turns toward the door before pausing for a moment to look over his shoulder. “I’m classy all the time, Hamilton. I even like to cuddle.”

Hamilton swallows a laugh and watches him walk away again. But this time, there’s no worry he’s going to leave.

#

Hamilton wakes too early and at first, it’s not clear why. It’s 6am, and he usually allows himself until 6.30 at the least. But then he remembers he’s not at home, and he opens his eyes to Jefferson’s room and Jefferson’s bed and Jefferson getting up and struggling into clothes, annoyed, to answer the knocking at the door.

Hamilton jumps up when he hears Lafayette’s worried voice. He grabs a blanket from the bed and moves into the hallway to hear Laf better.

“ -- we were just having fun, I swear, we didn’t mean to upset you both. But I think he took it hard and I went to make it up to him with croissants and coffee but he’s not answering his door or his phone! He never does that, Thomas, _never_!”

“Gilbert,” Jefferson begins but Lafayette keeps rambling.

“I know it’s wrong to ask you but please, help me find him!”

Jefferson prepares to interrupt him again, but Lafayette carries on.

“I can’t imagine where he’d go, he must be so upset with everyone --”

“Lafayette!” Jefferson shouts, to be heard above him. Hamilton creeps further down the hall, far enough to catch a glimpse of Lafayette, standing frantic in the doorway. “Laf, I know where Hamilton is.”

“What? Where is he?!”

“I’m here,” Hamilton says, pulling Jefferson’s blanket tighter around his body and stepping into the sitting room where Laf can see him.

Hamilton’s name is halfway out of his mouth, whispered in the most relieved tone Hamilton can imagine, when Lafayette breaks off as the full impact of Hamilton’s appearance hits him.

He curses loudly in French and a wide grin slowly makes its way to his face. “Oh my,” he says, and his voice grows increasingly devilish with every syllable. “Well. This is a development, isn’t it?”

Hamilton rolls his eyes. “Yes. We’ve… figured things out.”

“Oh, I can see that. On your neck, in fact,” he says, pointing, then pressing a hand to his mouth in a vain attempt to hide his smile. Hamilton can’t see his own neck, but he has no doubt it’s covered in red marks from Jefferson’s mouth.

“Yes, well...” Hamilton says, trailing off, but Lafayette doesn’t take the hint, and he hangs around in the doorway until Hamilton adds, “Well, now you know I’m alive and well, so…”

Lafayette just gazes between them for another moment before he composes himself. “Right,” he says. “I’ll be going.” His hand itches toward the pocket where Hamilton knows he keeps his phone and he starts to slide it free. “But maybe just one snap for proof of life…?”

“Out!” Jefferson says abruptly, and gently shoves Lafayette into the hall, bidding him a firm goodbye and shutting the door on his protests. There’s a loud whistling from the hallway that sounds an awful lot like an old Kenny Rogers duet, but it fades as Lafayette strolls away.

Jefferson turns back to Hamilton with his eyebrows raised. Hamilton shakes his head. “He’s going to tell everyone, you know that, right? Half the city will know by noon.”

Jefferson shrugs, crossing the room and tugging the blanket away from Hamilton, pulling him into the warmth of his arms. “If everyone’s going to talk, we might as well give them something to talk about. How do you feel about calling in sick?”

Hamilton fakes a cough. “Yes, I think I feel a cold coming on. Better get back to bed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from "Bite" by Troye Sivan. Given that the song Hamilton and Jefferson perform is the Dolly Parton & Kenny Rogers duet "Islands in the Stream" and given that I am a smartass, it was almost called _(carribean) islands in the stream_ , but I resisted. But only just barely.


End file.
